F
uck.
The pain lances through my shoulder and arm. I’ve done this before, so I know exactly what it is. But this time, it’s worse. Not just because of the timing, but the injury itself.
I knew the second I landed that I didn’t roll my shoulder under enough. Rookie mistake, but I’m no rookie.
I should have reported it immediately to the trainer and physician, but I didn’t. The shoulder was touchy to begin with. The announcement that I made the National Team is still a top news story and garnering me all the attention I’ve been looking for. Being diagnosed with an AC joint separation right now would be disastrous.
I have to play through it.
I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few days.
I ignore that it’s already been a few days, and each day keeps getting worse.
Maybe I can get the athletic trainer, Johnson, to tape it or something. I’ve been taking anti-inflammatories, which I don’t normally like to do, and trying to manage it conservatively. I’m doing lots of lower body drills to keep my legs in shape, but eventually, someone’s going to notice that I can’t lift my arm up.
Fuck.
While it’s still technically the off-season, we only have about four weeks to go until the official training season starts. While Icouldtake a day off or two, it’s probably not advised.
I don’t have much of a choice.
Three days after I’m named to the National Team, I text Kenley to let him know I won’t be in to work out.
Kenley: Fame going to your head already?
Me: You know it.
The next day, the shoulder is no better. In fact, I think it’s worse. This isn’t the first time I’ve separated my collarbone from my shoulder blade. I’m sure those ligaments have given up their last ghost. How many ghosts are there to give up? Are shoulder ligaments like cats and have nine lives? How many times have I sprained this joint? At least eight.
If that’s the case, then my career is over.
I’d need surgery and would miss most of the season, which is yet to even start.
That’s the worst-case scenario.
The best case is that I’m just getting old and I don’t bounce back as well as I used to.
I mope around in my place, not even bothering to turn the lights on. I’m going to become a hermit and sit here in my bathrobe until the end of time. It seems like a solid plan.
I manage to sit for about seven minutes before I have to get up and move around. I’m not sure being a hermit is a good career plan for me.
But speaking of careers, I need a backup plan if my career is ending. I pick up my phone, wincing as I forget that I can’t reach with my right arm.
Me: I can’t go into details, but I could really use a huge endorsement deal right about now.
Justice: Another paternity suit?
Me: No. And I’m being serious.
Justice: As was I. Keep your pants on. I was actually just going to call you.
I don’t have a chance to respond before my phone rings. I prefer to deal with people through text messages only, which my agent knows. He only calls when it’s big.
“Is it big?”
“I think so. It’s what we’ve been working on, but there’s a catch.”
